


NFFNSNC

by Radiolaria



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t find it pleasant.”<br/>“Human beings rarely do.”</p><p>Vastra and River discuss, a little, love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	NFFNSNC

 

Two figures on the beach. It is a nice beach; grey-golden sand and the occasional seaweed streamer drying in glistening stretches. Sea miles away and grey with stillness, too faithfully mirroring the sky.

The Lizard woman is dressed in black, laces and veils drifting with the wind, the heavy fabric of the dress flapping sharply. Her face is disclosed, impassible. She has followed without a word the grey-clad figure to the edge of the cemented path and ponders whether or not to step behind her in the sand.

River looks over her shoulder, a silent and confident invitation on the brow.  Madame Vastra hisses gently, dismissive of her hesitation and promptly falls into step behind River. The slow ruffle of her dress against the sand, the grits sent all over the place, finding her ankles with a welcome regularity, the characteristic perfume preceding the tame Homo-reptilia, all seem to guide her on the beach, nowhere in particular. Perhaps because there is nowhere to handle the subjects they came to discuss.

She stops before a low wall rotten with wilted weeds and salted crust, and leans in, inviting the other woman to settle by her side. Vastra has cast aside all consideration she might have exhibited before for her dress and hoists herself up on the wall, relieved to leave the sand for the air. She dangles her feet, quiet.

And distracted.

River waits. Her arms have fallen by her sides, brush against the rock. The crispness there is only matched by the sharpness of the outlined mansions in the distance, protected by trees and more rocks. The air is mellow with the cry of seagulls, the low rumble of the waves.

“I don’t find it pleasant.”

River nearly startles at Vastra’s voice, but regains control quickly enough not to gaze at her. As the Silurian does not go on, River straightens and begins, still her attention to the sea.

“Human beings rarely do.”

She can hear Vastra’s breath, steady and hissy, at a reasonable distance of her ears. The poise comes as a surprise. Few words will be exchanged, fewer emotions even. They come as a whole to the Homo-reptilia, felt with precise intensity and abandon. Felt only. The awaited display will be lacking.

 “I was a warrior”, Vastra comments simply. _And a wife,_ River hears her withhold. She knows too well how she was taught not to care. From the root extracted, obsession in place of affection. So many brothers and sisters crossed her path nevertheless, and were loved surely.

River reads it as an attempt to justify her state, her humility. It must seem to her she spent too much time with humans.

 “My people do not assess the after”, she hesitates. “Life the way humans do. We do not recognise the existence of what you call a soul. When one of ours departs, we stay with the knowledge their body will not go to waste and wither but go back to earth and thrive.”

She pauses and River keeps a close watch on her breath.

“But she acknowledged it.” She resumes, her voice carefully contained to a certain whisper. “And I indulged her. I respected her belief.”

 _And shared them in the end_ , River silently adds. Her eyes on the sand follows confused pattern, half imagined , half guessed.  Vastra’s voice have the rhythm and relentlessness of the ebb and tide and River has a feeling she chose the spot wisely.

“I find it difficult to conciliate these views, now. She is not here to assure me of the immortality of the soul. Nor of its existence. I don’t find any peace in yielding again to the considerations that once were mine.”

“But she is not here”, River finishes.

Beside her is a silence, not even a breath, and River knows the core of the subject is being skirted.

She pushes herself from the low wall, edging away from Vastra and allowing her the room necessary.

Silurians do not cry.

She drags her feet in the sand, not looking back, advancing to the ever receding sea and wraps her arms around her, in vain. Her chin falls on her chest, in thought, and she is surprised to find the light freshness of water there, long the collarbones. The wind has carried with him a stroke of salt and haze.  

And breathing, again.

She does not raise her voice. And the sound box created by her folded frame returns her a sound hollow and drafted she does not identify as hers. Has not for a long time.

“The heart can devise such stratagems and tricks to ensure that something is saved from the one lost.”

“I have found it a painful, quite selfish human sacrifice.” Vastra gently frills behind her, has probably descended from her perch. The hint of anger in her voice is almost comforting. “To the memory of the departed.”

“No one wants to be forgotten.” River offers, stopping her head just before she turns completely to glance at Vastra. “Whatever she believed, whatever she believed you believed, she made sure you were not alone. Even with a memory or a ghost.”

She still can discern her tall and dark silhouette against the sandy background, dried vegetation and tired walls.

“It is a doubt I could live without.” So breathy is her response River doubts she received the words from the Silurian. The wind, maybe. Or voices, other’s. There are so many.

“Maybe not her”, River murmurs in response and the long strides nearly taking with them her words bring her Vastra.

“Humans are fragile.”

“They are.” River concedes. “And time is a long thing to live as a Silurian.”

She turns her eyes to her companion.

The Silurian stands proud and cold, turned to the sea; it is a Turner of a seascape, she knows, lights hung to the sky and waiting to fall and drown.

River follows her gaze, curious about what she could find of interest in such romantic views, but no sooner Vastra has left her field of vision than she asks, daring and obviously amused.

“Why? You must be asking yourself.”

The smile is in her tone and River stills, waiting for the confession.

“A long time ago, I came to you. I had concerns about my growing fondness for a certain ape.”

River restrains her own smile, afraid to discourage her. She senses her eyes on her face.

“You responded to my questions. With hesitation and restraint. I felt nothing but gratitude.”

River represses a sigh and settles her attention back on her. Gratitude is the deepest form of devotion she could hope to gain from Madame Vastra. It is a gift coming with responsibilities. But devotion passes has opium these days.

“You had the intelligence not to dismiss interspecies acquaintanceships and the consecutive hindrances as mere trials one could defeat with the heart only.” Vastra is earnest even in her thanking her. A certain naivety does never completely leave her eyes. And she admires her for it.

“Even at the time, I had some experience on the question.”  

“I was wary of consulting you on such matters. But he can be…quite obtuse.” She directs the smile at River. It is apology and collusion. “I have to confess I am now ashamed of seeking again your words of advice.”

Her head is bent, the veils flying around her face like cotton of foams caught on the edge of a rock. Her hands do not fiddle, instead rest with dignity in her lap, controlled. River never questioned her emotional attachment to the Victorian era.

Vastra insanely fits. As she did with Jenny.

The hands folded on her knees are a defects of reality. Gloved and she knows she is wearing underneath both their rings. Vastra is staring at her hands.

Not to be held again.

Because Vastra is a monster of one lover.

And despite the fond, heartfelt “And comfort” River allows herself to say, as a token of welcome and understanding, friendship even, she does not take the Silurian’s hands in hers.

Vastra considers her restraint a second, marble-like in her stillness, her different assertive eyes, unblinking and River smiles in earnest.

She does not need to inform her that her visit is not perceived as insensitive in any way.

They both turn they head to the horizon. The painting has not changed. The dots of colours are still in place and time discreetly hanging from the ceiling, in the shape of clouds.

Vastra shivers, her teeth bared in a smile. The bridge of her nose twitch and she turns her face back to River, inquiring.

“It is cold.”

“Winter in Brittany usually is.”

***

She witnesses her fading away as she is pulled out from the dream back to the datacore.

For a moment she stays by the sea, choosing not to wake up right away, relishing in the moment, the realism of the droplets forming on her veil, the sand crisping under her shoes and hitching to the leather patterns.

It is a conscience unburdened from her mind. Weary with sorrow. With Jenny, the weight of this mind, ancient and infinite was taking its toll, yet bearable. With each visit, she wonders how the Doctor’s companion handled her presence. The Professor.

She dared not touch her.

Now she wishes she had.

She will come back. She always does. Despite the grief. Despite the emptiness of her bed.

She has a soul sister to hers.

Not a soul.

Silly ape.

**Author's Note:**

> The Title stands for Non Fui, Fui, Non Sum, Non Curo, an Epicurean epitaph meaning : I was not, I was, I am not, I do not care.


End file.
